An Ace Attorney Christmas Carol
by Helen von Drama
Summary: A gyakufied pastiche of Charles Dickens' classic, 'A Christmas Carol'. Set post-AJ. First published on LiveJournal on 19/12/13.
1. The Legal Jargon

1. I own all of the characters from 'A Christmas Carol', as the copyright has expired. This is because Charles Dickens is a dead guy.

2. I also own all of the characters from the 'Ace Attorney' series, even though the copyright has not expired. This is because I am awesome.

3. Therefore, I willingly and wholeheartedly infringe copyright laws, and invite Capcom to sue my ass if they think they're hard enough.

4. I am obviously hoping to make serious moneys from this masterpiece so, yes, this is for profit.

5. I plead the Fifth.

6. All characters appearing in this work are real in my mind. Any resemblance to persons outside of my mind, living or dead, is totally intentional.

7. Is a prime number.

8. Out of 10 cats ship Narumitsu.

9. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Which means this is the one-tenth that Capcom doesn't own. Or something.

10. See above.

11. All Wrights reserved.

12. On the twelfth day of Christmas, Takumi gave to me:

12 Judges Judging

11 Liars Lying

10 Gourdys Leaping

9 Badgers Dancing

8 Frans-a-Whipping

7 Gants-a-Swimming

6 Desks-a-Slamming

5 Psyche-Locks

4 Coffee Mugs

3 Fey Girls

2 Turnabouts

And a Phoenix in a Pink Tie.


	2. Foreword

To whoever takes the time to read this, I thank you most sincerely. Let this pastiche of a justly celebrated tale be my gift to you this Christmas, and many afterwards, which I hope that you shan't wish to return.

Ho ho hodō! Merry Nickmas!

Your pal,  
>H.E.<br>December, 2013.


	3. Stave 1: Von Karma's Ghost

Von Karma was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. Yes, old von Karma was dead.

What kind of dead, you say? Why, dead dead, of course. What other kind of dead is there? No simile could begin to describe how dead he was.

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth had felt little sadness at the death of his former mentor. To him, it was justice served for a man who had dedicated his entire life to obtaining perfection at the expense of the happiness of others. He had not attended the funeral, and he would not mourn.

It had been many years since Manfred von Karma had been executed, but somehow he still managed to have a hold on Edgeworth, rooting him firmly in the past and rendering him unable to fully move on. It was as if von Karma's ghost still had one hand upon Edgeworth's shoulder, reminding him of the man that he had once been under his tutelage.

There was no time that Edgeworth felt this more keenly than at Christmas. The holidays had come to symbolise destruction and emptiness for him, so he chose to avoid them as much as was humanly possible. There had been a time when the haunting memories of the past had begun to dissolve, to be chipped away by the determination of a man that he had once known, but that time had become part of the past itself now.

And so it was that he sat in his office on Christmas Eve, working, having recently returned to Los Angeles to take the role of Chief Prosecutor at the Prosecutors' Office. He had spent the past seven years in Europe, studying the various legal structures, and now he felt that it was timely to apply his knowledge, seeing as a nascent jurist system was currently in its infancy in the Los Angeles courts, something that had, ironically, been instigated by the self-same man who had once saved him.

It was the coldest winter on record and had snowed incessantly for three days, quite unusual for that part of the world, leaving snow ploughs struggling to keep up. Most of the city had ground to a halt, but not Edgeworth. No, he was determined to clear the large stack of paperwork that loomed on his desk in a tall, delicate tower.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, creating lines that belied his years; his eyes squinted at the ink-marked paper, even through his spectacles, which slipped down his long nose occasionally and were hastily pushed back up again with one finger; and the corners of his thin lips were turned down in a deep frown.

Beyond the open door of his office, a man in a begrimed beige coat sat in the corridor and pored over some paperwork. As soon as he had heard that Edgeworth was back, Detective Gumshoe had come to him, begging for his old job back. He had not so much taken pity upon the man as needed a subordinate again, his workload being that much bigger for being higher up the prosecuting ladder, and, although the man could be a little bumbling at times, he was a highly passionate, efficient, and oftentimes intelligent worker, who got the job done swiftly and adequately in the majority of cases.

All was quiet in the Prosecutors' Office, which would have been strange had most of the staff not gone home for Christmas. Edgeworth picked up the elegant china teacup that was resting on the only available surface on his desk and took a sip of the steaming golden-green liquid within it, savouring a rare moment of peace.

However, it was not long before the silence was broken by a jovial voice, which echoed all the way down the corridor.

"Eeedgeeey!"

Edgeworth sighed heavily and put down his pen. He disliked being interrupted at work, especially by those such as the owner of this particular voice.

The voice was followed into the office by a sandy-haired man wearing a wide, boyish grin, who proceeded to march right up to Edgeworth. It was Larry Butz, Edgeworth's friend from childhood.

"I couldn't stop him, sir!" shouted Gumshoe, running in after the man.

"Merry Christmas, Edgey!" yelled Larry, as if Edgeworth were miles away and not merely an inch from his face.

"Bah!" said Edgeworth, waving Larry away with a dismissive hand as if he were a common gnat, "Humbug!"

"Aw, man, you're such a scrooge," complained Larry, but his smile remained resolutely in place.

"I don't understand why you're so damnably cheerful."

"It's Christmas, Edgey! Do I need any more reason than that? And, by the way, what was that detective dude doing out in the corridor? You got a couple of cushy couches in here."

"I just didn't want to get in Mr. Edgeworth's way when he was working, pal," said Gumshoe.

Larry shook his head in incredulity. "You gotta start treatin' your staff better, man."

"Why have you stopped working, Detective?" said Edgeworth, raising an eyebrow at the man in question.

"Oh! Sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, sir! I'll get back to it!" said Gumshoe, leaving the room in a hurry.

Edgeworth returned his gaze to Larry, fixing him with an impatient glare.

"How I treat my staff is none of your concern. Now, would you care to explain exactly why you are sullying my afternoon with your presence?"

"I came to invite you to Christmas dinner in Kurain Village tomorrow," said Larry, simply, as if it were an everyday occurrence for someone like Edgeworth.

Edgeworth snorted derisively. "And why would you do that?"

"It's been too long since everyone last saw you, Edgey! And hey, what are friends for?"

"Don't confuse acquaintance with friendship."

"Aw, come on. We used to be best friends in grade school."

Edgeworth looked away, uncomfortably. "That was a long time ago."

"Well, if you change your mind, feel free to just turn up tomorrow. Here, I'll give you the address."

Larry dug around in his pockets and finally produced a folded piece of paper, which he threw onto Edgeworth's desk. Edgeworth merely gave it a disapproving glance, before focussing on Larry once more.

"I can assure you that that will not be happening," he said, acerbically.

Larry was about to say something further when another voice sounded outside the door.

The voice was singing, it seemed, through an amplification device of some sort.

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly!

Falalalalalalalala!

Time to fill your shopping trolley!

Falalalalalalalala!"

Larry decided to join in at this point, cutting off the other voice.

"Edgey's wearing gay apparel!

Falalalalalalalala!"

Just then, Mike Meekins walked into the office, revealing himself as the source of the assault on Edgeworth's ears. Meekins was a former police officer, who had then been demoted to court bailiff, and, finally, been fired from the force for bungling one too many assignments. He still wore his old uniform, even though it was quite tattered by now, and he carried a megaphone on a strap over his left shoulder.

As Gumshoe came to stand helplessly in the doorway, an expression of pure horror on his face, Meekins raised the megaphone to his mouth and began to sing once more.

"Sing we now our Chris–"

"Christmas be damned!" thundered Edgeworth, slamming his hands down on his desk. "Gumshoe! Please escort both of these childish idiots from my sight!"

"Right away, sir!"

As both Meekins and Larry were dragged away by Gumshoe, they called out to Edgeworth.

"CAROL SINGING IS THE ONLY JOB I HAVE NOW, SIR! PLEASE LISTEN TO ME SIIING!"

"I still believe in you, Edgey! Keep the child in you aliiive!"

Edgeworth laughed to himself, humourlessly. "Larry believes in me. Well, that's comforting. I might put more stock in that sentiment if it were someone else." He paused. "Someone like…" He shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge the thought from his mind. "No."

Lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes, he sat back down in his chair, and had just picked up his pen when Gumshoe reappeared in the doorway. Without looking up, Edgeworth resumed writing and said, "Detective, pray tell me how not one, but two brainless buffoons managed to make their way past you and into my office in quick succession, giving me a headache and infringing upon my work time."

Gumshoe simply stood and stared at him, his mouth agape.

"I am waiting for your answer, Detective."

"I… I… I'm sorry, sir?"

Edgeworth sighed. "Not as sorry as you will be after your next pay review."

After a moment of silence, Edgeworth realised that the other man was still standing there, so he prompted his departure by saying, "That will be all, Detective. You've done quite enough damage for one day. I fear that I might be accosted by a couple of charity workers or some other such annoyance should you remain here."

"You mean… you want me to go home?" asked Gumshoe, in astonishment.

"Yes, Detective," said Edgeworth, as if he were talking to a two-year-old child. "_Without _pay," he added, anticipating Gumshoe's next question.

Gumshoe nodded in defeat, his head down and his shoulders sagging. He turned to walk out of the door and then, seeming to remember something, turned back.

"Um, Mr. Edgeworth, sir?"

"Yes?" came the impatient answer.

"W-well, it's Christmas tomorrow, sir, and I was just wondering–"

"You were just wondering if you could have the day off. Correct?"

"Well, y-yes, sir."

Edgeworth sighed heavily, put down his pen and removed his glasses as he considered.

"I suppose that you would be terribly unproductive tomorrow were I to call you in. Take the day."

"Thank you, sir!" said Gumshoe, a little too loudly.

"And Detective?"

"Yes?" asked Gumshoe, his voice tinged with a slight hope.

"Close the door behind you when you leave, please."

The glimmer disappeared from Gumshoe's eyes. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

When Gumshoe had left, Edgeworth continued to work until long after the light had faded and he was left squinting at the pages in front of him, having forgotten to ask Gumshoe to replace the bulb in his desk lamp and feeling little inclination to leave his desk to turn the overhead light on. It was early evening when he left the Prosecutors' Office and drove home in his red sports car.

Home, to Edgeworth, was a three-storey townhouse in one of the affluent areas just outside Los Angeles. The street on which the house sat stood out rather oddly among the others surrounding it, seeming as if it had been brought there, cobblestone by cobblestone and brick by brick, from another place, another time.

And yet, the term 'home' was but a formality. It provided shelter from the bitter cold, but Edgeworth had little sentimental attachment to it. The rooms, though sufficiently heated and comfortably furnished, were cold somehow. There was no laughter, no light conversation, to warm the empty house. But these were thoughts that Edgeworth did not allow himself to think.

Deftly, he unlocked the front door, but as he extended a leather-clad hand toward the doorknob, he happened to glance at the knocker. He reeled in shock when, expecting the usual brass, his eyes instead alighted upon the face of Manfred von Karma.

He stared at the knocker in utter disbelief, willing himself not to look away. He knew that his eyes could not be deceiving him when several moments passed and the knocker still bore the same ghostly visage. The long, grey hair; the cold, calculating green eyes; and the sardonic smile upon its countenance could not be mistaken.

Suddenly, the face let out a terrible scream, one that Edgeworth knew all too well.

He could have borne the hallucination, had it not been for that hideous sound. He tore his eyes from it and, in one swift motion, opened the door and scuttled inside the house. He rested his back against the wood after he had closed it again, before remembering what he had just seen on the other side of the panel. Fearing that von Karma's likeness might pass through the door and into his own body, he leapt forward, and, in the pitch blackness of the hall, collided with the coat stand, causing him to tumble to the floor in a mass of flailing limbs.

Feeling self-conscious, despite the fact that he was alone in the house, he picked himself up off the floor; righted the coat stand; and dusted down his overcoat, before removing it and placing it carefully upon the stand.

By the time that he had settled down in his favoured armchair, which sat in front of the fireplace in his room, with a plate of Brie in one hand and a glass of Bordeaux in the other, he had rationalised the entire ordeal in his mind. The light, he justified, was poor, and the mind was prone to play tricks upon itself in such conditions.

After he had consumed the last crumb of cheese and drained his glass of the remaining dregs of wine, he rose from his armchair and began to dress for bed. He took off his jabot, folded it neatly and placed it in the top drawer of his dresser. Then, he removed his magenta suit and carefully hung it in his closet. This done, he put on a pair of pyjamas, which were imprinted with a character from a popular children's television show. He had been vigilant to hide such a fancy from the world at large, concerned that it would wound his reputation as an esteemed prosecutor.

As he drew the curtains around his four-poster bed and settled down underneath the duvet, he wondered how long it would take him to get to sleep tonight. He didn't have nightmares anymore, at least, but it was still difficult to turn off his brain; thoughts about the previous day, the day that had just passed, and the day ahead turned in his mind.

Had he fallen asleep immediately, he might not have heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. One, two, three footsteps – no, two footsteps and a cane? Edgeworth had only known one person with a walking pattern like that.

Recalling the incident with the knocker, he reminded himself, over and over again, of the logic of the matter. Manfred von Karma could not be here, because Manfred von Karma was dead.

The footsteps stopped by the foot of his bed. Then, all was quiet once more.

"See?" thought Miles. "It was simply an auditory hallucination, caused by my being in a half-lucid state before the onset of sleep."

It was then that he heard the footsteps move to the side of his bed, followed by an impatient tapping of the cane on the floorboards. Still, he did not move. That is, until a voice spoke.

"Miles Edgeworth. I don't seem to remember teaching you to ignore honoured guests," came the deep, baritone, very slightly German voice.

Honoured guests? Despite his trepidation, this enraged Edgeworth, who drew apart his curtains in disgust to face whoever it was who had come in the guise of his old mentor for the sole purpose of mocking him.

The sight that confronted him was both macabre and spectacular.

There stood Manfred von Karma, resplendent in his formal attire. But over his tailored suit; his embroidered waistcoat; and his jabot, set with a bright, turquoise jewel, he wore a criss-cross of chains. Upon these chains hung five heavy locks, the likes of which Edgeworth had seen but once before. These locks, however, were slightly different to the ones that he had witnessed; they were inlaid with gold just the same, but fashioned in black instead of crimson.

Being focussed on the locks, it took Edgeworth a moment to realise that the man standing before him was also translucent. He blinked, as though the act of closing and reopening his eyes would remove the apparition.

"I can see that you do not think me truly here," said von Karma's ghost.

"No, I don't, because you cannot be here. This is but a nightmare. It must have been the wine! Yes, I knew I shouldn't have drunk wine before bed! Or the cheese! Yes, it is well-known that cheese can induce nightmares! Or perhaps even that tea earlier – it was a new one that I recently had imported from the Republic of Zheng Fa! You are just in my mind. This is all in my mind."

"Cease your irrational ramblings and listen to me, you blathering idiot! I don't have much time!"

Edgeworth was shocked into silence by this outburst. He pinched himself once, then once more, and still he did not wake up. He decided to let the nightmare run its course, since it seemed so determined to do so.

"Well? After so many years, have you truly nothing to say to me?" continued the ghost.

Edgeworth scrabbled for an answer, before recomposing himself and replying with, "No, I have nothing to say to you."

"What a pity. I have much to say to you."

"And what would that be?"

"Though it grieves me greatly, I have been sent to impart some information to you. Information that may well prove to be your salvation." Von Karma baulked at the word 'salvation', as though it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

"My salvation from what, exactly?"

"You recognise these locks, do you not?"

"I do," affirmed Edgeworth, reluctantly.

"But are you aware of your own?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I wear no such locks," insisted Edgeworth, crossing his arms in defiance.

"Oh, but you do," sneered von Karma, a taunting smile on his face. "And there is only one way to break them. It is this that I have come here to tell you tonight."

"Fine, let us pretend that I do, indeed, bear these locks upon my chest. Why do I bear them?"

"That is not my duty to tell you. Only know that you will be visited by Three Spirits. The first shall come at the strike of one tomorrow morning. The next shall come at the same time on the subsequent morning, and the third shall follow at the stroke of midnight."

"Can they not all come in one night, or will their schedules not allow it?" Edgeworth was almost amused now.

"You will soon revoke your mirth. But for now, I have served my purpose and must return."

"Where to?"

"That, I cannot say. But I can show you the company that I keep there."

Von Karma turned and disappeared through the drapes that hung in front of the bedroom window, which faced out onto the street. Edgeworth stood up from the bed, pulled them apart, and gazed downwards.

There, gathered in the street, were more ghosts like von Karma, all with – what were they called, Psycholocks? – dripping from the chains that were draped around them. Edgeworth realised with a start that he recognised many of the spectral beings. There was Redd White in his garish pink suit; Matt Engarde, clutching his brandy glass; Dahlia Hawthorne…

Edgeworth's mind whirled with the memories of trials past. As he watched the spirits of the convicts that he had helped to incarcerate, they began to fade away, until he wasn't quite sure if he had ever seen them.

Closing the drapes, he got into bed once more and pulled the curtains to.

"Three Spirits, indeed," he mumbled as he lay his head down on the pillow. "What humbug."


	4. Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits

After several, unsuccessful attempts at sleep, Edgeworth pulled on his dressing gown, put on his slippers, and took to his armchair once more to watch the large grandfather clock by the door. He narrowed his eyes at the minute hand, watching it slowly move from hour to hour, until the clock rang out the hour of one.

At this, he leapt up from his chair and assumed a strong stance, so that he might be ready should a Spirit confront him once more. But nothing happened, and he felt rather foolish.

Then, he became aware of a light trickling through the apertures between the bedroom door and its frame. But this was not a warm, yellow light, as of a candle being carried up the stairs; it was a cold, white light, which made Edgeworth shiver despite there being no chill in the room.

As the light grew brighter, he shut his eyes tightly against it and willed its source to leave, to find another door through which to cast its beams. Through his eyelids, he could see the light dim, and he found the courage to open his eyes.

Before him stood a woman, as beautiful in spirit as in life, with sleek brown hair cascading down her back. She had not aged a day since her death.

"M-Mia Fey?!" spluttered Edgeworth. "B-but you're…"

"Dead? Thank you, I'd forgotten." Mia smiled at his bewilderment.

"T-this isn't possible."

"And yet, here I am."

Edgeworth paused, trying to comprehend the situation. When he found that he could not, he spoke in as steady a voice as he could muster.

"Are you the first Spirit?"

"Yes. I am here to show you Christmas Past."

"I do not wish to be reminded of the past."

"Who said you had a choice in the matter?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.

When Edgeworth gave no reply, she held out her hand and said, "Now, do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?"

"Where are we going?" demanded Edgeworth.

"Take my hand and you will see."

Edgeworth hesitated.

"Come on, we're not in grade school anymore. It's just a hand."

Reluctantly, Edgeworth reached out and took hold of her hand. He had expected it to be cold, but instead it felt as warm and solid as that of a living person. The physical contact was a little bit of a shock to his system, and he shivered slightly.

And then, the walls were folding in on themselves, engulfing the furniture. Edgeworth stood stock still, his grip tightening on Mia's hand. The movement of the walls then reversed, and Edgeworth became aware that they were no longer standing in his bedroom.

Instead, they were in an empty corridor with many doors.

"Where are we?"

"You don't recognise this place?"

And then, his disorientation gone, Edgeworth remembered.

"It's my old school."

He turned to where Mia had been standing but a moment before, only to find that she had vanished.

"Ms. Fey?"

Mia's bodiless head emerged through one of the doors.

"Come on in."

"H-how did you do that?" squeaked Edgeworth, in amazement.

"This is the past, Edgeworth. We're not actually here, which means that the laws of physics don't apply. As Maya would say… Duh." She rolled her eyes before retracting her head behind the door.

"Oh. Of course. I knew that."

This knowledge did not stop him from hesitating in front of the door, or trying to grasp the doorknob. The habits of a rational lifetime were proving hard to break.

Beyond the door was an almost empty classroom. Almost empty, save for three young boys. One had sandy hair and a cheerful countenance; the second had dark, spiky hair and an air of easiness; and the third – a pale, morose boy – was at his desk, furiously scribbling on a piece of paper.

"It's Phoenix and Larry," said Edgeworth, with a mixture of nostalgia and regret in his voice.

"Yo, Edgey! We're gonna have a snowball fight! You in?" said the younger Larry.

"You two go on ahead. I want to get this essay done."

"But that doesn't have to be in until after the Christmas holidays!" protested Larry.

"All the more reason to finish it now, so that I can start working on my reading list instead."

Come on, Miles! Come and have some fun instead! It's not every day that it snows in L.A.," said Larry, in one last attempt to convince his friend.

"That's your problem, Butz," said the boy at the desk, not lifting his eyes from his paper. "You always put off more important things in favour of 'fun'."

Larry looked a little hurt at this statement. "C'mon, Nick, it'll probably be more fun without Mr. Snooty Patootie anyway." And, with that, Larry strode over to the door, flung it open in a rather dramatic fashion and stalked out with his nose in the air.

Phoenix stayed in the room. "Um… Miles?" he said.

"Yes?" came the detached reply.

"I'm going to my aunt and uncle's house for the holidays, so I won't see you until school starts again. So… have a good Christmas and stuff."

"Mmm-hmm," said Miles, not even bothering to spare Phoenix a glance.

Phoenix waited for a second, then walked out the door, passing straight through the older Edgeworth.

"Huh," said Edgeworth.

"What?" asked Mia.

"I never thought that I'd see the day when I'd think that maybe Larry has a better philosophy on life than I do. There have been so many things that I have missed while I've been focussed on the 'important things'." He paused before continuing. "Also, and I have no idea why I'm dwelling on this thought at this particular moment in time, I feel terrible for the way I treated both him and Officer Meekins yesterday."

Without warning, the room dismantled itself, as before, and reformed into a small, but homely, living room.

In one corner, between the window and the fire roaring away merrily in the hearth, there stood a humble, yet magnificent Christmas tree, adorned with mismatching ornaments, most of them homemade, and multi-coloured tinsel. The lights on the tree twinkled like tiny stars, and sitting atop it was an angel dressed in white and silver.

"Why have you brought me here?" said Edgeworth, trembling a little.

"Because you have forgotten that you once had many happy Christmases, too," replied Mia.

"But… if this is after the Christmas that we just witnessed, then –" started Edgeworth.

"I didn't say that I would show you things in their chronological order," interrupted Mia. "There is a logic" – she smiled at this – "to seeing the result before the cause."

Suddenly, there was the sound of the front door being slammed shut in the hall, and both Edgeworth and Mia turned to look in its direction.

In the hall stood a handsome man in a black suit, beige trench coat and black fedora, with a claret tie that cut through the other, more drab colours. His glasses slipped down his nose as he bent his head to remove his hat, and he pushed them back up to the bridge with a single finger. Edgeworth touched his own glasses subconsciously.

The man removed his coat and placed it on the stand next to the door. As he was loosening his tie, there came the sound of footfalls on the stairs. The sound was followed by the sight, once again, of a younger Miles, but this incarnation was brighter of face and his eyes shone. Behind him, a woman descended the steps with a great deal more care than her son. She smiled, faintly, as Miles hugged his father in greeting.

"M-Mom?" whispered Edgeworth.

Maria Edgeworth was a tall, slight woman, with a pale, delicate face. Her dark hair hung in straight swathes upon her shoulders, and her gentle grey eyes were kind and unassuming. But she was also frail, gripping the banister tightly for support as she struggled to carry her own weight on her miniscule frame.

As she stopped halfway down the stairs to cough lightly into her hand, her husband frowned. "You shouldn't be up," said Gregory Edgeworth, worriedly.

"I know," she said, weakly, "but Miles wanted to stay up to see you on Christmas Eve."

"What have I told you about keeping your mother up, Miles?" scolded Gregory, though his voice was not harsh. "You spoil him, Maria."

"We were only blessed with one son, and I intend to spoil him while I still can."

Gregory grimaced a little at her words, and then kissed the top of Miles' head. "Go on up and get ready for bed, son. I'll be up in a minute to tuck you in."

"Okay, Dad!" said Miles, obeying his father's request and skipping back up the stairs. Maria watched him, fondly, as he ran past her.

Gregory climbed the stairs and embraced her, being careful not to hold her too firmly. "You must go to bed too."

"I know. I'm just glad that you're home. Miles wasn't the only one who was staying up just to see you."

"Well, I'm here now," murmured Gregory into her hair. "I'm here."

They stayed like that for a long while, neither of them wanting to let go just yet.

"My mother, she… she died the next day. Christmas Day," said Edgeworth, suddenly. "I knew that she was sick, but she never told me just how bad her illness was. I-I was young; I thought that she'd get better. I-I thought…" He bit his lip, unable to continue.

Mia gave him a few moments to himself, before saying, "We cannot stay here. We must go on."

Edgeworth took a deep breath and surveyed the scene before him one last time, locking it away in his memory. "Okay. I'm ready."

Once again, the room shifted and metamorphosed around them until it was no longer the same room. The younger Edgeworth was now sitting on an elegant couch in an impeccably furnished, soulless living room. There was no Christmas tree to be seen, and there was no glow in the fireplace.

As Edgeworth looked upon his ten-year-old self, a door opened and a man entered the room. Walking closely behind him was a girl of about three with a shock of silvery-blue hair and icy blue eyes, who was preoccupied with what appeared to be a miniature whip.

"Mr. von Karma?" ventured Miles, in a timid voice.

The man gave a slight turn of his head and stared at Miles, with a half-amused, half-irritated expression.

"Mr. Miles Edgeworth." It was not a question.

"Um, well, Mr. von Karma, it's Christmas soon –"

"Tsk, tsk. Do you remember what I said to you when I first took you in?"

Both Edgeworths nodded as von Karma's words echoed in their minds.

"_As I am sure that you are aware, your father and I… knew each other. That is why I feel that it is my duty to offer you residence with me. But first, let me make something quite clear. I am not your father and, as such, I will not tolerate weakness, imperfection, or foolishness. Is that understood?"_

"Y-yes," answered Miles, in a faltering voice.

"Yes, _sir_," corrected von Karma.

"Y-yes, s-sir."

"What's wrong with you today? Can't you even speak without stuttering, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's better. Now, Franziska, what do you think of this Christmas nonsense?"

Franziska looked at her father, who looked back at her, expectantly.

"I think that it's a foolishly foolish holiday for foolishly foolish fools, Papa."

"And what happens to fools who wish to celebrate it?" said von Karma, an anticipatory smirk appearing at one corner of his mouth.

"They must be punished."

And then, Franziska lashed out at Miles with the whip, hitting him squarely between the eyes.

Edgeworth rubbed the same spot on his own face, remembering the sting. "Ouch. She always was a menace with a whip, even at that age."

"Good girl," said von Karma, in a patronising tone, and patted Franziska lightly on the head, as if she were a pet rather than a child. Then he strode out of the room without another glance at either of them.

"I did not wish to celebrate it," said Edgeworth, indignantly. "I was merely asking whether it was celebrated in the von Karma household."

Franziska, noting the pained expression on Miles' face, sat down next to him and said, "Don't worry, Little Brother. If you follow Papa's rules, he won't punish you. He's not so bad once you get used to him."

At this small and unexpected gesture of comfort, Miles' face crumpled and he began to cry.

"Don't start crying, you fool!" hissed Franziska. "If Papa sees you, he will shame you for your weakness!"

"I-I know… b-but I… I…"

"You are a von Karma now. And von Karmas do not cry."

Miles looked up at her, his face a pathetic, tear-stained mess. Franziska tutted at the sight.

"Fool," she muttered, but used the sleeve of her dress to wipe away his tears as Miles looked on, startled.

"T-thank you, Franziska," he said, hiccupping a little.

She sat back and looked to be considering something. "You may call me Fran," she said, decisively. "But only you. Don't let Papa hear you say it."

"I had no idea that you and Ms. von Karma were so close," said Mia. Edgeworth had almost forgotten that she was there.

"Having Fran there was the only thing that kept me sane in that house, I'm sure."

"How is she these days?" asked Mia.

"I wouldn't know. We haven't spoken for a long time."

"That is a shame."

"Yes. Yes, it is," said Edgeworth, with great sincerity.

"But there is much difference between the living and the dead," said Mia, cryptically.

Before Edgeworth could say anything in response, they were in a large, almost churchly office.

Occupying the centre of one wall was a gigantic organ, which was currently being played by a white-haired man in a gaudy orange suit. The piece that he was playing was obviously supposed to be a joyful tune, judging by the manner in which he played it, but somehow it still managed to sound sinister.

"Well, well. Damon Gant. I had hoped that I'd never see him again," said Edgeworth.

Edgeworth's past self entered the room, except this time he was no longer a boy, but a young man of twenty-three. He was followed by a lumbering man in a grimy green coat.

"I had hoped that I'd never see that coat again, either," said Edgeworth, more to himself than to Mia. "He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. He still is."

The clock struck the hour of seven and Gant's hands stilled on the black and ivory keys. Then, he clapped vigorously; pulled at the forelock of hair that rested on his forehead; threw his head back and guffawed, louder than his prized organ; and spoke in booming tones.

"Ho ho! Worthy! Gummy!" he said, spinning around on his stool to face them. "Ho ho, my boys! Time to shut up shop. The Police Department's having a jolly Christmas party and you're both invited. We might even go swimming afterwards!" He clapped gleefully once more.

"But it's only seven o'clock!" exclaimed Miles. "I really must be getting back to my office with this new evidence and –"

"Come now, Little Worthy. It's Christmas Eve!"

"Isn't it a terrible waste of taxpayers' money to have a party?" countered Miles.

"My dear Worthy, you must learn to relax and enjoy yourself once in a while!"

"Yeah, Mr. Edgeworth!" exclaimed Gumshoe, finally chiming in. "Christmas only comes once a year."

"Then that is once a year too many," replied Miles, coldly. "I must bid you goodnight, gentlemen," he said, with a small bow, and then turned on his heel and left.

"Oh, dear," said Gant, worrying at his hair once more. "Worthy seems to be in a bad mood." Then, brightening, he said, "Oh well, never mind. You and I shall go to the party and have a marvellous time, shan't we?" He stood up and went to clap Gumshoe on the back.

"Y-yes, sir," said Gumshoe, laughing nervously.

It was then that Mia noticed that Edgeworth's eyes had gone out of focus, as if he were thinking very hard about something.

"What is it?" she prompted.

"It's… nothing," said Edgeworth.

"You looked very pensive just now."

"I was thinking about Dick. I… haven't always been fair to him."

Then, Edgeworth noticed that the vision in front of him was growing dim and the walls were slowly beginning to dissolve around both him and Mia.

He became aware of flecks of white passing his eyes as they made their way to a frostbitten ground. Not only was the sky as black as pitch, but a light mist hung in the air.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a figure etched itself onto the scene. Edgeworth soon recognised the figure as himself, a little older than before, sitting on a snow-dusted wall outside a shabby, run-down restaurant.

There came the sound of footsteps from an uncertain direction. Then, from out of the gloom, a silhouette appeared, its features growing sharper and more defined with each step, until it was fully lit under the gentle glow of a streetlight.

"Wright."

The man stopped and looked up. He had the same dark, spiky hair and open features, but now also a handsome maturity. The light reflected off the planes of his face and the angles of his jaw; highlighted his smooth, tanned complexion; and illuminated his deep brown eyes, making them appear the colour of warm cinnamon.

But the true light had gone from his eyes, replaced by an indecipherable multitude of emotions. His trademark grin was also notably absent from his face.

Edgeworth watched himself rise from the wall and walk towards the other man.

"Edgeworth," said Phoenix, in barely a whisper. Then, stronger, "What are you doing here?"

"Somebody told me that I could find you here."

"Who?" demanded Phoenix.

"That is not your concern."

"Then what is 'my concern'?"

"The fact that I had to find out about your disbarment from a third party, months after the actual event. How could you be so stupid, Wright? Presenting forged evidence, after all that we've been through?"

"I didn't know that it was forged, okay?! And if you were any kind of friend, you'd know that."

"Look, I believe that you didn't forge the evidence. But you should've known that it was too convenient!"

"Yeah, well, I screwed up. There, I said it. Happy now?"

"I just want to help, Wright."

"If you've come back to offer me help, I don't need it, and I certainly don't need your pity."

"You can't do this alone. I won't let you."

"I'm doing just fine without you. And since when have you worried about leaving me on my own? Just piss off back to Europe like you always do."

"Goddammit, Wright! Don't you know how much I care about you?!" The confession rang out starkly in the still night air.

Phoenix froze for an instant, his eyes wide, before his features hardened into an expressionless mask. "Don't come looking for me again." Then, he turned sharply and was swiftly enveloped by the darkness.

"Wright! Wright!"

Miles' words were met only by a strong gust of wind. He dropped his head and closed his eyes in defeat. His actions were mirrored by the older Edgeworth.

"Why must you show me something that I cannot change?" he said, his voice catching.

"One more thing, and then I must leave you," said Mia.

Edgeworth wished to himself that she didn't have to go; he was suddenly deathly afraid of being alone.

As he turned his head, he found himself in a familiar office, though it had changed since he had last seen it. A large proportion of the formal office furniture had disappeared, making way for various props that looked like they were made for use in some sort of magic show. They, and other assorted falderals, lay strewn about the place, giving a sense of general untidiness. A faded portrait of a man in a top hat had pride of place above the black upright piano.

A man in a bright blue woollen hat stood by the window, his back to Edgeworth, watching the snow that was falling outside. He was so close that Edgeworth could have touched him, if only it were possible.

The door to the office opened and then slammed shut, but the man was so lost in his thoughts that he did not stir.

"Daddy?" said a voice from behind. The man turned, jostled from his reverie. It was only then, with his face in profile, that Edgeworth realised that it was Phoenix.

Edgeworth also turned, and his eyes alighted upon a young girl, whose outfit was bedecked with a red cape and top hat.

He was stunned. "He has a daughter? H-how is that possible?"

"Sorry, Trucy. I was miles away," said Phoenix. A visible frown took over his features at his choice of words.

"What is it?" she said.

"Nothing. It's just that, for a moment, I was reminded of… an old friend."

Trucy, not quite understanding, but yet also sensing her father's need, simply wrapped her arms around him, a gesture that was returned, and they stood, watching the snow, saying nothing.

"Please, take me away from here," said Edgeworth. He turned to look at Mia, and realised that she was already fading away, becoming yet another memory.

"Goodbye, Miles. I do hope that we shall see each other again someday."

Edgeworth was jarred by the use of his first name, and he made a new resolve to do the same unto others.

"Goodbye, Mia. And thank you."

"You're welcome. Nice pyjamas, by the way." Then, she simply smiled as the last traces of her long, lustrous hair and striking features dissipated.

Edgeworth realised, with no small amount of relief, that he was back in his bedroom again.


	5. Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits

Knowing that sleep was out of the question, Edgeworth took up his sentry post in the armchair once more. However, his head began to nod as he watched the clock and he fell into a light doze.

He awoke to the sharp sound of wood colliding with wood, which seemed to bounce off the very walls. It appeared to have come from behind his bedroom door, so, shaking with anticipation, he got up to investigate.

He opened the door a crack and peered through it. Beyond was one of the nine courtrooms belonging to the Los Angeles District Court. Edgeworth thought it empty at first, but then he spied –

"The Judge?!" exclaimed Edgeworth.

And it was, indeed, The Judge. He was sitting in his usual chair above the court, gavel in hand. He wore his usual long, dark robes, and the barest hint of a dark red tie poked out from underneath his vast, grey beard. Until Edgeworth had cried out, his eyes had been closed and his brow furrowed, looking, to all intents and purposes, as if he were pondering a mind-boggling philosophical question. As it was, he had, in actuality, nodded off, and Edgeworth's voice had startled him awake.

"I-I was just resting my eyes!" he called out, to no one in particular. Then he became aware of Edgeworth craning his head around the door and said, "Mr. Edgeworth, you may approach the bench."

Edgeworth felt almost compelled to do so; it seemed as if his feet were walking on their own, without his permission. When he had neared The Judge, he ventured, "Your Honour, are you… dead?"

"Ah, no, no, I was told that I'm having one of those thingamajigs. That's it – an out-of-body experience."

The Judge then closed his eyes, deep in thought.

"Your Honour?"

"Hold on a minute, I'm trying to remember why I'm here."

"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Present?" prompted Edgeworth.

"Yes, yes, that's it. I say, have you ever met my brother?" said The Judge, abruptly changing the subject.

"Once or twice," replied Edgeworth, irritably. "Shouldn't we be going?"

"Don't rush me, Mr. Edgeworth! I'm an old man, you know. Now, what is it that you need to do? Ah, yes, touch my robes."

At the touch of the finely-made fabric, they were both transported to a street in a poorer part of the city. The houses here were a hodgepodge of dilapidated dwellings, some of which looked to be on the brink of collapse. They were of various heights, and so created a rather irregular line against the cloud-ridden sky. The savoury smell of cheap, salty noodles wafted through the air from a nearby cart, behind which a man with long tendrils of blond hair stood to peddle his wares.

Edgeworth had barely had time to take in his surroundings before The Judge took off walking. He had to half-run to catch up – old man, my foot!

"Where are we going?" he enquired.

"One thing that I have learned in all of my years as both a judge and a man, is that the journey is more important than the destination," said The Judge, sagely.

As they made their way through the streets, The Judge occasionally stopped to tap one of the people who passed him with his gavel. Once touched by the gavel, all of that person's ills seemed to be cured – lame men walked, and blind men could see again!

Edgeworth did not like the topic of magic, especially when he had already experienced his fill of it tonight, and so he remained silent and simply watched The Judge perform his miracles.

Finally, The Judge stopped at a door. It belonged to a rather narrow house, the roof of which had sunk in on itself slightly and was missing several slates.

"Whose wretched house is this?"

"It is the house of your partner, Dick Gumshoe, and his wife, Maggey."

Almost as if at the sound of his own name, Gumshoe approached his house from the opposite direction, whistling a slightly off-key, but nonetheless merry Christmas tune. Upon his shoulder sat a young boy, who brandished a single crutch above his head as he sang along to his father's accompanying whistle.

When he had reached the threshold, Gumshoe carefully plucked the boy from his shoulder and placed him back on his feet. He then opened the door and went inside, holding it until the boy had passed him. When the door had swung shut, The Judge turned to face Edgeworth.

"Well, Mr. Edgeworth, shall we go inside? All we have to do is –"

"Walk through the walls, yes, I know," said Edgeworth, almost bored now by his own acceptance of the absurd.

Inside was a cramped room, which contained the whole house, it seemed. There was a small kitchen unit along one wall. Over the stovetop, there stood a woman, who stirred at a large pot. In the centre of the room, there was a breakfast table, which had been folded out in order to make a slightly larger surface and was already set for dinner, with mismatching chairs arranged around it. A lumpy, but neatly-made bed lay in parallel with another wall, and a sofa sat in front of a small gas heater on the opposite side.

Gumshoe went up to the woman and embraced her from behind. She was so alarmed that she dropped her spoon, which landed with a clatter in the pot, causing a little of the broth within to splash onto her apron.

"Sorry, Maggey!" yelped Gumshoe, leaping back.

"Ah, it's just a little soup," she replied, good-humouredly. "I mustn't have heard you come in."

Gumshoe pecked his wife on the cheek before proceeding to remove his scarf and jacket, then helping the boy to do the same.

"How did Little Richard" – for he had been named after his father, and was now affectionately called 'Little' – "like his walk today?"

"He didn't complain once. Did you, Richard?"

The little boy shook his head, shyly.

"You know, I think he's getting stronger every day." At this, Maggey smiled.

"But he was carrying that boy upon his shoulder!" protested Edgeworth. "I highly doubt whether he did much walking by himself at all."

"Sometimes an illusion is more welcome than the truth, Mr. Edgeworth," said The Judge. Edgeworth wondered whether he was getting a little too wise for his own good.

"Wash up and sit down, both of you; dinner's almost ready."

When they were both sitting down, Maggey slopped a slimy mess of noodles in a brown broth into each of their rather cracked bowls, and then doled a portion out into her own bowl. After she had replaced the pot on the stove, she returned to her seat and sat down. Neither Gumshoe nor Little Richard had touched their bowls, being gentlemen.

Just as Maggey had plunged her fork into her noodles, Gumshoe spoke out. "Let us give thanks to Mr. Edgeworth, without whom this turkey-flavoured non-instant ramen meal would not be possible."

"Mr. Edgeworth?! Mr. Edgeworth?!" shrieked Maggey. "Yes, I'd like to give something to Mr. Edgeworth, but it's certainly not my thanks!"

"You mean we should have got him a present?" said Gumshoe, his brows dancing in confusion.

"Yes, a present that looks a lot like my fist!"

"Maggey, please, it's Christmas. For Richard's sake…"

"Oh, fine, fine." Maggey snatched up her glass, which was filled with watered-down cordial. "To Mr. Edgeworth," she said as she raised it, a forced, saccharine smile on her face. "Let us have a drink in his honour, and hope that somebody has slipped cyanide into his." And then, she took a large gulp of the liquid.

"Maggey!"

"Sorry, sorry," grumbled Maggey into her drink. Then, she and Gumshoe began to eat. Little Richard, however, did not even pick up his fork, and frowned at his bowl.

"What's wrong, Richard?" asked Maggey, concernedly.

"I want to thank Mr. Edgeworth, too," he piped up. "Is that okay, Mommy? Daddy says that Mr. Edgeworth is a Hero of Justice who fights for truth. I want to be a Hero of Justice, too."

"And you will be, son. You will be," said Gumshoe, patting him on the shoulder.

"You've poisoned that boy's mind, Dick," said Maggey, under her breath.

"How bad is Little Richard's condition?" asked Edgeworth of The Judge.

"Incurable, I'm afraid," said The Judge. "He will die within the year."

"Why can you not cure him?! You cured so many in the street!" demanded Edgeworth.

"There are some souls whose fates cannot be changed by divine intervention alone."

"Do you refer also to me with that comment?"

"That is something that you must find out for yourself, Mr. Edgeworth," said The Judge, but his eyes twinkled as he said it. "Let us continue on to the next house."

And then he turned and set off walking again. Edgeworth stood for a moment, mouth agape, before running to catch up with him once again.

"You mean we're walking everywhere?!" he complained. "At least Mia had the decency to teleport us from scene to scene."

"Come now, Mr. Edgeworth, don't be lazy."

Edgeworth had nothing to say to that, so he sulked quietly like a petulant child for the entire journey, which consisted of the aforementioned walking; a two-hour train ride; and yet more walking, this time up a steep, mountainous path. Edgeworth had to bite down, hard, on his tongue when a bus passed them. The Judge seemed to be unfazed.

The houses in this place were very different, almost… Japanese? Most of them were rather rustic-looking, with thatched roofs. But the house that they arrived at was more impressive, and by far the largest, most elegant house in the entire village, it would seem.

"What is this place?"

"We are currently in Kurain Village, or as it's sometimes known, Medium Valley. This is Fey Manor, home to the main family of the Kurain Channelling Technique. You are already familiar with the current Master, Ms. Maya Fey."

"So she did take over from her mother, after all," mused Edgeworth.

"It was her destiny to do so."

"You talk a lot of 'fate' and 'destiny', Your Honour. Do they truly have such a strong pull?"

"Only for those who will listen to their call." And with this, The Judge led the way into the stately house.

The village itself may have been uncommonly quiet, but inside Fey Manor, there was an atmosphere of general jolliness and enjoyment. Some of Edgeworth's old friends and acquaintances were there, and a few new faces, too. There was Maya, of course, looking ever-so-slightly more mature in her Master's robes; Pearl, her cousin, now a young lady; Phoenix, still in his woollen beanie and tracksuit; Trucy, now in a blue cape and top hat; Ema Skye, who was currently munching on something questionable from a clear plastic bag; a young man with strange hair that stuck up in two long spikes above his forehead; a blond-haired man, whom Edgeworth recognised from somewhere; and Larry, who seemed to be hosting this get-together, despite it not being his house.

Larry went to stand in front of the assembled company, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled for their attention. "Hello, friends, and welcome to the Larry Butz non-family family Christmas for ladies, gentlemen, children, and hobos," he announced, grandly.

A blue blur whizzed across the room and hit him in the face.

"Professional slobs?"

A shoe.

"Piano- and poker-player extraordinaires, who are currently retaking the bar," amended Larry.

Phoenix nodded, mollified, and relaxed back into the couch, arms folded.

"Now, let's play a game. I call this one 'Yes and No'. I'll think of something, and you can ask me any question about it, but I can only answer with 'yes' or 'no'. Got it?"

The guests murmured in agreement, and so Larry thought for a moment, before an impish grin spread across his face. "Okay, I've got one. Who wants to start?"

"Me, me!" cried Pearl. "Is it an animal?"

"Yes."

"Does it live in L.A.?" asked the boy with the odd hair.

"Yes."

"Is it domesticated?" said the blond man.

"You could say that," sniggered Larry.

"Yes or no answers only, Larry!" chided Maya.

"Okay, okay."

"Does it hibernate in the winter?" offered Ema.

"It hibernates all year."

"Larry!"

"Sorry!"

"I give up," said Maya, throwing her hands in the air.

"Is it intelligent?" asked Ema, her mouth full this time.

"Extremely."

"Is it a well-liked animal?" said Trucy.

"No, but some crazy people like it, myself included."

All of the guests were thoroughly confused. Nobody could guess just what this animal was. Ah, but they were not thinking outside the box!

"Okay, I'll give you a clue," said Larry, a mischievous smirk growing on his lips. "Nick is especially fond of this particular creature."

"Oh, I know!" cried the blond-haired man, suddenly. "It's Herr Edgeworth, isn't it?!"

As the rest of the party descended into uproarious laughter, Edgeworth had half a mind to laugh along with them. To be likened to an animal – really, it was laughable!

But there was one among them who did not see the funny side. Phoenix rose from his seat, calmly but stiffly, and left the room.

"Nice job, Larry, you idiot!" hissed Maya as she leaped up from her seat and ran after him, followed closely by Trucy and Pearl.

There was a stunned silence for a very long moment.

"I-I didn't realise that it was such a sensitive subject," said Larry, in an embarrassed tone. He scratched the back of his head, nervously.

"It would seem that someone still cares for you a great deal," commented The Judge.

Edgeworth opened his mouth to reply, but, before his eyes, they were outside a cemetery, somewhere entirely different. He revised what he had been going to say.

"We walked up a mountain and now you decide to take the shortcut?!"

"My time is almost up. I, for one, am looking forward to returning to the land of the living, Mr. Edgeworth. I have grandchildren to visit tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But today is –"

He was cut off by the sound of a church bell clanging, marking the hour of midnight. The Judge began to disintegrate into the fog.

"Your Honour! Wait! Don't leave me alone in this place of death!"

But he had already gone. Edgeworth closed his eyes and willed himself home. Surely two Spirits were enough? He had learned his lesson!

But his prayers went unanswered. For, at the last ring of the bell, there came a hooded figure through the mist. It wore an unusual, yet also very familiar, necklace, and in its right hand it held a many-branched sword, whilst its left hand gripped a crystal sphere.


	6. Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits

Edgeworth knew this particular Spirit to be Ami Fey, the Feys' ancestor and the founder of the Kurain Channelling Technique. He felt awed, and a little intimidated, to be in her presence, such was the aura that surrounded her.

"Ms. Ami Fey, it is an honour," he said, bowing. "I presume that you are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?"

She nodded, also bowing in return, and he had to step back, for there was a tall, starched arc above her head, which sat upon her shoulders like some kind of unconventional halo.

Her reticence gave him a sense of unease. He had, at least, been able to find some comfort in the conference of the first two Spirits.

"Great Spirit," he said, "please, take me where you will. I am ready to learn."

The ghost of Ami Fey beckoned him closer with her sword-wielding hand, and bid him look into her crystal. Hesitantly, he did so, and saw within a street in the city, upon which two familiar faces were engaged in an exchange.

"How's he doing?"

"Not good, and he won't talk to me."

"Is he going today?"

"I don't know. He's barricaded himself into his office and refuses to come out. And that's not all. The police took the cell phone that they found on the body as possible evidence, and I heard from Gumshoe that it rings every couple of hours. The caller ID is always the same."

And then, just like that, the vision in the crystal clouded over. Edgeworth was bemused as to why Ami had chosen to show him such a vague conversation, nor did he know what he was supposed to glean from it. But, before he could question it, another vision appeared.

This time, he saw the inside of a prison cell, though it was like no prison he had ever seen. In fact, the bars that replaced the length of one wall and covered the only window were the only evidence of it being a gaol. There was a bookshelf set against one wall, which held leather-bound volumes and several trinkets, including an elegantly carved violin. In the middle of the room sat a purple armchair, not unlike Edgeworth's own, and a small end table. One corner held a chest of drawers, upon which sat a vase of blood-red roses; a hand-shaped glass bottle; and a picture frame, though Edgeworth could not make out the person in the picture from his current perspective.

Again, there were two people in the vision, but both of them were caught in shadow, it being night-time, and so he could not see their faces.

"I hear that you were successful. I can die a happy man now." Edgeworth did not recognise the soft, almost effeminate, voice of the first man.

"Ah, yes. Your execution. I am terribly sorry." Edgeworth knew that he had heard this voice somewhere before, but he could not presently call its owner to mind.

"Don't be. I have managed to use my influence to postpone it long enough for this. Long enough to finally have my revenge upon Phoenix Wright."

"Wright?" said Edgeworth. "Revenge?"

It was then that the second man stepped into the thin beam of moonlight that trickled through the window, and Edgeworth saw his face.

"Shelly de Killer," whispered Edgeworth, though the man could not hear him. He looked up at Ami. "Please tell me that Wright will not die at the hands of this man."

But Ami declined to offer him such assurance. He looked back down at the crystal to see a new image coming into focus.

It was Gumshoe's house again, looking very much the same as before. And there was Maggey, stirring at a pot on the stove. But when the door to the house opened, only Gumshoe stood there upon the threshold.

"I'm home, Maggey," he said, quietly, defeatedly.

Maggey stiffened slightly, but continued to stir without missing a beat.

Gumshoe tried again. "I understand that you're grieving, Maggey. So am I. But we've lost so much lately. I don't want to lose you, too."

Maggey turned to face him. "I have lost my child, whom I carried in my belly for nine months. Never liken losing your job to that."

"It's not just my job, Maggey. I've also lost a friend."

"A friend! Don't you understand?! My only child has died and is never coming back! And where was your friend when that happened?! Where was your friend when he was sick?!" Maggey choked on her words, but managed to get them out nevertheless.

Edgeworth did not know whether the vision had grown blurry because it was time for it to end, or whether tears had formed in his eyes.

Ami withdrew the hand that held the crystal, and used her sword – goodness, what was it called again? – to point towards the cemetery gates. Edgeworth shivered; he had almost forgotten where they were.

When Ami did not lead the way, he went to the gates and pushed them open. Treading onto the hallowed ground, he followed the direction of her sword, glancing back every once in a while to check that he was going the right way. A fair way into the cemetery, he looked back at her to find that she had stopped by a snow-covered headstone, and her sword was pointing directly at it.

Edgeworth slowly approached the grave and knelt before it. He reached out a shaking hand and wiped the snow off with one sweeping motion.

The gravestone read:

MARIA EDGEWORTH

A LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER

DIED DECEMBER 25, 1999

REUNITED WITH HER BELOVED HUSBAND

GREGORY EDGEWORTH

ON DECEMBER 28, 2001

Edgeworth looked at Ami, confused.

"Why do you show me my parents' grave? They are long since dead."

Ami merely continued to point at the grave. Edgeworth turned back to the headstone and noticed that there was still a small patch of snow at the bottom that had yet to be removed. Once more, he wiped it away.

ALSO

MILES EDGEWORTH

DIED DECEMBER 25, 2031

"I wasn't anything to anybody."

Sobs began to wrack Edgeworth's body as his tears from earlier welled up in his eyes again and finally spilled over onto his cheeks. It was as if there had once been a bitter frost inside him, which had melted and was now leaking from his eyes.

"Oh, but you were. You just didn't know it."

Edgeworth was shocked to hear the Spirit speak. He looked back at Ami, his eyes red and stinging.

"Look at how Phoenix Wright reacted to your death. He 'barricaded himself into his office', and would phone you constantly, even though he knew that you would never pick up, just to hear your voice on the answering machine. You were even important enough to him that an old enemy chose to hire an assassin to kill you, knowing that it would be a greater punishment for him to lose you, rather than his own life. And Gumshoe still considered you a friend, even though his wife blamed you for the death of their son."

Edgeworth considered her words, and the visions that she had shown him suddenly began to make sense.

Then, her necklace began to emit an odd sort of luminescence, and he could see the lower portion of her face by its light. He went to speak, but the words died upon his lips. The corners of the Spirit's mouth curved upwards in a smile, and then the glow of her necklace grew brighter, so bright as to be blinding.

So bright that he was forced to shield his eyes with his arms.


	7. Stave 5: The End of It

A moment or two passed, and Edgeworth became aware that the light had diminished. Slowly, he brought his arms down and opened his eyes. The first thing that he saw was magenta. Magenta curtains, to be precise.

He was back in his bedroom once again, in his bed, and he wasn't dead.

"I'm not dead!" he cried. "I'm alive!"

He touched a hand to his eyes and realised that they were still wet. Wiping them on the sleeve of his dressing gown, he rushed to the window, wrenched apart the drapes, and lifted the sash. Sticking his head out, he breathed in the cold, clear air and found great pleasure in the simple ability to fill his lungs.

It was at that moment that he heard the strains of a Christmas carol coming down the street over a megaphone:

"We three kings of Orient are

One in a taxi, one in a car,

One on a scooter blowing his hooter,

Smoking a big cigar!"

"You, there! Mike Meekins, hello!" he called out to the man below.

"WHO, ME, SIR?!" yelled Meekins, stopping in his tracks and looking up at the window in utter bafflement.

"Yes, you! What day is it?"

"WHY, IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, SIR!"

"Christmas Day? It's still Christmas Day! Thank you, Spirits, thank you!"

"SIR?"

"Wait there a second. I have something for you."

He rushed to his closet and fetched his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit. He opened it and pulled out a large wad of bills that had been bound together with an elastic band. He went back to the window, half expecting Meekins to have scarpered. But no, he was still there, gazing upwards with a gormless expression on his face. Throwing the money to him, Edgeworth bellowed, "Merry Christmas, Mike Meekins!"

"WHAT'S THIS FOR, SIR?!" said Meekins, looking down at the money that was now in his hand.

"For carolling services rendered."

Meekins looked perplexed for a second, and then his eyes filled with tears.

"THANK YOU, SIR!" he shouted, sniffling.

"You're very welcome! A Merry Christmas to you!"

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, SIR!" said Meekins, saluting.

Edgeworth drew his head back into the room and closed the window as Meekins' singing resumed.

"Now, I've got a few other things to make right! Speaking of which, I also have a Christmas dinner to attend!"

He flung open the door to the closet once more and took his magenta suit off the hanger. Then, he went to the dresser and took out his jabot. He paused, looking down at the clothes in his hands. Then, quite impulsively, he threw the suit onto his bed and tossed the jabot into the waste paper basket beside it. Next, he proceeded to pull out the black suit and bowtie that he usually reserved only for funerals.

"Well," he thought aloud, "today is a funeral of sorts. R.I.P. Miles Edgeworth – he shall not be missed."

He hurried to get dressed, nearly falling over whilst rushing to get his pants on. Normally, he would have scorned himself for such ridiculous behaviour, but today he simply laughed at his calamity.

Once fully clothed, he returned to the closet. Gazing up at the top shelf, he spied what he was looking for. Apprehensively, he unfolded the stepladder that was leaning against the wall and took a deep breath before placing one foot on the bottom rung. He had always hated heights, but decided that the prize was worth the fear. Bravely, he climbed to the top of the ladder and retrieved it.

Coming out of the closet with a spring in his step, he found a bag in which to store the item and placed it inside. Next, he plucked the house phone from its cradle on the bedside table, and dialled a number.

"Hello, there! Merry Christmas to you, too! Listen, I want to call in that favour. Could you possibly acquire a turkey for me? Yes, I'm well aware what day it is. Can you still do it? You can? Excellent. I'll give you the address."

After he had given out the necessary details, he replaced the phone and rubbed his hands with glee. Now, there was only one thing left to do before he went to the Christmas dinner in Kurain.

Rushing downstairs, he put on his coat and scarf, and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. He then opened the door and stepped out into the fresh snow, enjoying the crunching sound that it made beneath his feet. After closing and locking the door, he got into his car and drove into the main part of the city.

He parked a block away from his destination and walked the remaining distance. His step faltered outside the gates that had once inspired so much dread in him. In the daylight, however, the cemetery seemed less foreboding, and so he opened the gates and went to find his parents' grave. He had stopped on the way to purchase a bunch of blue forget-me-nots from a street merchant, which he now laid reverently on the stone.

"I'm sorry that I haven't visited. I guess that I thought that, if I did, I would have to truly face the fact that you were gone, instead of being able to detach myself from your deaths, as if it were something that had happened to someone else. I know that I haven't been a very good son, but I want you to know that I have always, in my heart, tried to make you proud. I just wanted you to know that."

He didn't know what else to say, so he said the one thing that he could.

"Merry Christmas, Mom. Merry Christmas, Dad."

As he left the cemetery, he felt almost serene. There would be no more tears over the past, for his parents had been good people, people who had made a difference in the world, and he would continue to strive to do the same. They were at peace in death, and he could only hope that he would find it in life.

He got back into his car and began to drive to the train station. As he approached the Police Department, he spotted a familiar blue figure dancing outside.

It seemed that somebody had seen fit to place a Santa hat on its head.

"Merry Christmas, Blue Badger, you old rascal!" he yelled out of the window as he passed, feeling quite giddy and childish.

He got some rather peculiar looks from passersby on the street as he wished them a "Merry Christmas!", but nothing was going to stop him from spreading his newfound sense of goodwill to all men.

He parked his car at the train station, bought a ticket and boarded the very next train to arrive. At the other end, he had the great fortune to catch one of the three buses running that day, and made it up the mountain to Kurain Village in record time.

Standing outside the door to Fey Manor, he could hear muffled voices, laughter and music coming from within. Edgeworth hesitated, half wondering if he should turn back.

"No," he thought, "I've been running away for too long."

With this decision made, he rapped at the door firmly. After a few moments, there was a scuffling sound and the door was opened.

Though the years had passed and time had been unyielding, as it is for us all, the handsomeness of the man who stood in the doorway had not eroded. Yes, there were the early signs of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but little else about his features had changed. His eyes, though they now bore a hint of bitterness and apathy, were still the same warm, brown eyes; his face was sallower and unshaven, but the natural olive tone of his skin still shone through.

Phoenix took one look at Edgeworth and then made to close the door. Edgeworth only just managed to get his hand between the door and the jamb in time to stop him.

"Wait, wait! I was invited."

"Who invited you?" asked Phoenix, suspiciously.

The answer didn't come from Edgeworth.

"Edgey! So you decided to take me up on my offer after all! What made you change your mind?" said Larry, leaping into view behind Phoenix. Phoenix turned and glared at him, accusingly.

"I was visited by Three Spirits last night, all of whom showed me the error of my ways and the joy of Christmas," said Edgeworth, truthfully.

Larry stared at him, wide-eyed, and then broke down into laughter.

"Good one, Edgey! I didn't have you pegged for a joker!"

"No, I'm serious," protested Edgeworth, as Larry hooked his arm around his shoulders and pulled him inside, pushing past Phoenix in the process.

In the living room, he scanned the guests and noticed a woman with silver-blue hair standing by the Christmas tree and talking to a woman that he recognised as Adrian Andrews, her back to him. Then she looked around, and wore an expression of shock as her eyes alighted upon Edgeworth.

"Miles?"

"Hello, Franziska. Merry Christmas."

She walked towards him, slowly, and then quickly pulled him into an embrace.

"Ich habe dich vermißt, kleiner Bruder," she whispered in his ear, her grip on him tightening ever-so-slightly.

"I've missed you too, Fran," he whispered back.

After several introductions – Edgeworth learned that the boy with the two prongs on his head was the Apollo Justice that he had heard tell of – they all sat down to a hearty roast, with heaps of mashed potatoes and gravy.

After dinner, Trucy delighted all of the guests with her magic tricks, even persuading Edgeworth to act as her assistant.

"Hey, Edgey! Shouldn't you be wearing a dress or something?" said Larry, and everybody laughed, even Edgeworth. Everybody, that is, apart from Phoenix, who regarded Edgeworth carefully.

The whole day had been peppered with glances, but not a word had passed between them since he had first arrived. Edgeworth realised that rebuilding their shattered relationship would take time, longer than it would take to fix everything else.

After the party was over, Maya invited him to stay the night at Fey Manor, as the rest of the guests were, but he politely declined, saying that he needed to be in work the next day. He wasn't about to leave, though, without doing one final thing.

"Phoenix," he said, to the man in the beanie. This elicited surprise in the other man, who was used to Edgeworth calling him by his surname. "May I speak with you alone for a moment?"

Phoenix, by way of reply, inclined his head towards the hallway and then started to walk in the same direction. By the time they had both reached the door, Edgeworth had completely forgotten the words that he had prepared. Stalling for time, he reached into his bag, still hanging on a hook, and brought out the item from the closet.

"Well, say what you want to say."

"Remember all of those letters that you sent to me after you saw that article in the paper?"

"Yeah, I remember," said Phoenix, flatly. He eyed the pile of envelopes that Edgeworth was carrying, all bundled up with string, and remarked, "I suppose you want to give them back. Well, you can just chuck them away, because I don't want them either."

"No, actually, that's not it. I used to read your letters a lot, often when I was feeling low or vulnerable. Your words, they… they brought me immense comfort and, for a long time, I didn't know why. You thought that I didn't reply. Well, I did. I just couldn't bring myself to send them."

He coughed, embarrassed. "So… um, here you go," he said quickly, shoving them into the other man's hands. This earned him a quirked eyebrow.

"Just… promise me that you'll read them."

Phoenix stared for a second longer and then nodded, reluctantly.

"And then… maybe we can talk?" he said, hopefully, adding, "If you want to."

Phoenix's head continued to nod, gently.

"Well… Merry Christmas, Phoenix."

Edgeworth turned and walked out the door, leaving Phoenix staring after him from the doorstep.

He set his alarm that night for a full half-hour earlier than usual, so that he would arrive at work ahead of time. He found that he could scarcely sit in his chair for bobbing, but he forced himself to sit still and adopted a stony-faced glare as he heard the door to his office opening, signalling Detective Gumshoe's long-overdue arrival.

"You are late, Detective," said Edgeworth, glancing at his watch for effect.

"Well, you see, sir... I stayed up a little too late last night, it being Christmas and all…"

"I don't wish to hear excuses for your continued incompetence. I'm afraid that I have no other choice but to cut your salary. Unfortunately for you, it has been cut so many times that this occasion will render it non-existent."

Gumshoe stared at Edgeworth in horror, unable to speak. As he stared, he noticed Edgeworth's face begin to crack. All of a sudden, Edgeworth started to laugh, irrepressibly.

"You should have seen your face!" he said, laughing all the while.

"M-Mr. Edgeworth? Are you alright?"

"Never been better, _pal_," he said, and rose from his seat, beckoning for Gumshoe to come closer. Gumshoe looked, for a moment, as he were considering running away from this lunatic posing as Miles Edgeworth, but his obedient side won through.

Tentatively, he approached Edgeworth, who slung his arm around Gumshoe's shoulders, much to his surprise. "Tell you what. I'll raise your salary, buy you a new house, pay for Little Richard's medical care and give you the rest of the holiday period off. How does that sound?"

"M-Mr. Edgeworth… you've gone mad!"

"Quite the opposite – I should've done it years ago! Oh, I could kiss you! In fact, I think I will!"

And with that, he grabbed the older man about the ears and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek.

"S-sir! I-I don't know what to say…" stuttered Gumshoe, turning a bright shade of crimson.

"Then say only 'Merry Christmas!'. Merry Chriiistmaaas, Gumshoooe!" sang Edgeworth.

"Uh… Merry Christmas?" said Gumshoe, detachedly, still reeling from the revelations of mere seconds ago.

He turned slowly, as if he were in a dream, and walked towards the door on autopilot. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, however, he seemed to remember something, and turned back.

"You know, it's the strangest thing, pal – somebody sent us a turkey with all the trimmings."

"Somebody sent you a turkey? Well, who was it?"

"See, that's the thing – they didn't leave their name."

"What a pity. It would have been nice to thank them in person."

"Yeah, it would've… Unless…" said Gumshoe, realisation crossing his face as he looked at Edgeworth.

"What is it, Detective?" said Edgeworth, desperately fighting to keep his amusement down.

"N-no, could it have been…?"

"Go home, Dick. You look tired."

"Um, er… thanks, Mr. Edgeworth, sir!" said Gumshoe, adding, "For everything."

"Please, call me Miles. Goodness knows you've known me long enough."

"Oh, er, right… Merry Christmas, Miles."

"Merry Christmas, Dick."

And Miles, as he was now known by friends and acquaintances alike, kept all of his promises, and more besides. He became Little Richard's sponsor, and loved him as if he were his own son, whilst he and Dick remained the best of friends for the rest of their lives. Even Maggey found it in her heart to forgive him.

But as for him and Phoenix? Well, they say that anything can happen at Christmas.


End file.
